


Open House

by bergamot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dubious Depictions of Real Estate Agents, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamot/pseuds/bergamot
Summary: The cookies are baked, the carpets are cleaned, and Brienne Tarth is all set to host the perfect open house. Until fellow real estate agent Jaime Lannister shows up uninvited, that is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Mikki! Thank you for all the encouragement you’ve given me and other writers on this site and at JB Online. Your hard work and enthusiasm does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. 
> 
> Happy reading :)

The oven binged. Brienne took out the last tray of chocolate chip cookies and set it on the stovetop to cool. The rest of the cookies were piled nicely on a large white platter on the granite counter top next to stacks of real estate flyers and her business cards. Brienne pulled off the oven mitt, stuck it in a drawer next to the oven, and brushed her hands down her black sheath dress to check for crumbs.

The open house would begin any minute now, and the three bedroom, three bath semi-attached home was spotless. Brienne had decided not to rely on staging furniture to set off the property’s best features, instead letting the clean lines of the house (and the warm scent of freshly baked cookies) speak for it. The house was situated on the outskirts of King’s Landing, the ruins of the ancient sept just visible over the neighboring rooftops. It was a fair distance away, true, but a historical sight like that leant a lot to the asking price.

Brienne padded to the front door in bare feet. Shoes were always the last thing to put on before welcoming prospective buyers. For now, the carpets were freshly-cleaned, fluffy and immaculate, stretching across the open floor plan of the house like a pristine field of snow. She peered out the front door, checking to make sure the sign on the front lawn was still upright and clearly visible from the street: Stark Real Estate, OPEN HOUSE, 5 to 7 PM.

_Perfect_.

She slipped her feet into a pair of sensible, black leather flats and returned to the kitchen to take care of the last of the cookies. In a trice, they were piled on the platter with the others, the baking sheet tucked away into one of the kitchen cabinets. Brienne took a deep breath, adjusted the stack of business cards to ensure they lined up just right with the stack of flyers, and waited.

Sam Tarly and his wife Gilly were the first to arrive. For this, Brienne was grateful. It took a great deal of schmoozing to sell a house, and Brienne had never been the most outgoing real estate agent. She was shy and awkward at the best of times, overly conscious of her towering height and homely face, and open houses were twice as difficult if the only attendees were strangers. Although she was not a fan of Sam’s father (nor he of her), she at least knew the Tarly family well.

Sam was heavy-set and all smiles as he shook her hand and let her lead them on a tour of the house. He liked the open floor plan, he told her, and liked the chocolate chip cookies even more. Brienne blushed and apologized that they were of the tube variety and not from scratch. Gilly hefted her blond-haired baby in her arms and cooed at the walk-in pantry and the gas stove. The front door opened to admit a second couple, and Brienne left Sam and his family to peruse the rest of the property on their own.

In no time at all, the house was buzzing with potential buyers.

*

“No backyard?” Brienne grimaced. A young woman with silvery hair looked up skeptically at her partner, an older gentleman with a receding hairline. “What am I supposed to do with no yard?”

“Dany, sweetling,” the gentleman soothed. Dany huffed and crossed her arms, glaring at the small back patio and the strip of paltry grass edging it. The man glanced at Brienne with panic in his eyes.

“Do you have pets?” Brienne asked quickly. The open house was still busy, but so far, there had been no firm leads on a buyer. Plenty of her cookies were gone, as were the flyers and even her business cards, but the event was more than halfway over. “There’s a dog park just three blocks north from here. I walk there with my friend and her dog sometimes... Very friendly dogs. Plenty of room to—”

“Oh,” said Dany, biting her lip. “No, they’re more like… cats?”

Brienne was about to ask why cats would need a large yard when the front door opened. A flash of gold hair over by a group of potential buyers in the entry way caught her eye. “No,” she hissed, recognizing that head of hair instantly. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“I assure you, they’re perfectly safe,” said Dany, looking affronted.

Brienne blushed and stumbled an apology. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean your cats. Of course, when it’s your house—I mean, any animal is welcome as long as… as long as they are permitted by Kingdom regulations…” She trailed off as the head of golden hair bobbed through the crowd into the living room. “Will you excuse me?”

She turned away from the couple before they had a chance to protest. It was fruitless anyway; Brienne knew how to recognize a failed sale when she saw one. She might have a property or two she could show them, but something in the way the woman talked about her pets made Brienne uncomfortable.

For once in her life, she was grateful that, at six feet, three inches, she towered over most people. It allowed her to keep that mop of garish golden hair in her sights as she maneuvered to the front of the house. She smiled at a single young woman admiring the dining room light fixture and then squeezed herself between a family of four, stopping only to nod and point in the direction of the staircase when asked if the master bedroom had an en suite.

The owner of that hair finally came into sight, and Brienne stopped abruptly at his elbow. “Jaime,” she spat. 

Jaime Lannister turned and flashed her his most charming smile. “Legs!”

She fisted her hands in the narrow skirt of her dress, and smiled politely at him. “What are you doing here, Jaime?”

He gestured to a short round man at his right. “Mr. Mott here is in the market for a new home. I just happened to see a flyer for your open house and thought it’d be perfect for Tobho and his growing family.”

The rotund man smiled proudly and stuck out a beefy hand. “Tobho Mott,” he said, “of Mott’s Jewelers and Fine Metalwork.”

Brienne relaxed just enough to shake Mr. Mott’s hand. “How do you do, sir? Welcome.” She turned to Jaime. “As much as I appreciate you bringing Mr. Mott by, don’t you think it’s a conflict of interest?”

“Conflict of interest?” Jaime cocked his head, his quizzical expression completely fabricated. “I don’t see how. We’re both associate brokers, Brienne. Just because I have a red lion on my business cards and you a blue wolf on yours doesn’t mean we can’t,” he paused and grinned, “be friendly with one another.”

Heat crept up Brienne’s neck at his smile. She wanted to deck him, hard, but this wasn’t the time or the place. She lowered her voice. “And what about the commission? If you think I’m sharing with you just because we—”

Jaime tsked and shook his head. He turned to Mr. Mott. “A discussion for another time, wouldn’t you say, sir? Shall we take a look around?” He glanced at Brienne. “Two bedrooms,” he asked, “or three?”

If Mr. Mott had not been standing there with an amused expression, if the room had not been packed with strangers, if the air had not hung heavy with the scent of sugar and chocolate, Brienne would have grabbed Jaime by the scruff of his fine wool suit and shoved him out the front door. As it was, she gritted her teeth and answered, “Three.”

*

Brienne leaned against the kitchen counter, glaring in the direction of the staircase. Jamie and Mr. Mott had disappeared to the second floor to view the bedrooms more than ten minutes ago. Not that she was counting. She turned and tried to distract herself by restacking the set of real estate flyers.

Stark Real Estate really was a terrible name for a company. It didn’t speak highly of the quality of their properties at all. Brienne supposed that was one reason she’d turned into a bit of an overachiever when it came to selling. She hated being underestimated. Judged. And this business was all about first impressions.

People expected the bubbly real estate agent with a crisp wardrobe, immaculate hair, and expensive accessories. That just wasn’t in Brienne’s first nature. She was honest, diligent, and passionate about helping people. She’d been lucky that her broker Catelyn Stark had seen past her rather masculine features and shy exterior and turned her into one of the best residential real estate agents in King’s Landing.

Unfortunately for Brienne, the real estate business turned out to be full of sharks, and no one had sharper teeth and a bigger bite than Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock Residential. Jaime had years of experience—and several contested sales—under his belt, and Brienne was no match for his barbed tongue, quick wit, and acerbic personality. Within minutes of meeting, he’d mistaken her for a man, asked if she was a lesbian, and then come on to her. They’d almost come to blows over closing costs on a five-bedroom brownstone until Catelyn had finally stepped in.

True, their working relationship had improved over the years. Brienne suspected Jaime actually admired her commitment to providing the utmost in service for her clients, despite how much he teased her for it. And it was also true that Brienne enjoyed their verbal sparring from time to time. Sometimes, she even insisted they meet at the office just so she could glare at him face-to-face instead of over the phone: Jaime was a very attractive man—one of the most attractive in King’s Landing. That golden hair, his sharp green eyes, that firm jawline…

Brienne shifted against the kitchen counter and looked around the room self-consciously. She went back to reshuffling the flyers. She was not immune to the way Jaime affected her physically. She doubted any hot-blooded woman in King’s Landing would be. But that didn’t mean she wanted him at her open house. She had a job to do, and Jaime Lannister was entirely too distracting.

*

“You the caterer or something?” said a voice.

A redheaded man stood on the other side of the counter. His button-up shirt was a loud print of red roses on a black background. She blinked at it. “I’m the agent hosting this open house,” she said. “There is no caterer.”

The man looked her over. He was at least a head shorter than her. Brienne cleared her throat and stretched out her hand to him. “Brienne Tarth of Stark Real Estate.”

He ignored her hand. “Seems Stark Real Estate needs to step up their selling game,” he huffed. “I’ve been waiting in the living room for five minutes and no one’s said a word to me.”

“I apologize,” said Brienne stiffly. “We’ve had a lot of people through here tonight.” She could resist adding, “I’m saying words to you now, however. Perhaps you’d like to see the house?”

The man sniffed. “Nah,” he picked up one of the few cookies left on the platter and then tossed it back down. “Not interested in the kind of house they let animals into.” He sneered at her pointedly.

“Then perhaps you should leave.”

Brienne looked over the man’s shoulder to see Jaime leaning casually against the wall at the bottom of the staircase. He crossed his arms and looked the man up and down. “Wouldn’t want to dirty the clean carpets, would we?”

“And who are you?” The man sneered, “Her partner?”

Jaime raised his brow, but he didn’t look at Brienne. “Perhaps.”

“Jaime,” she warned. A few prospective buyers were looking over at them from the front of the living room, no doubt wondering what the confrontation was about. This was not the first time a stranger had spoken to her disrespectfully at an open house. She was used to people reacting unfavorably to her unconventional looks. Brienne had learned that the best way to deal with people's scorn was to pretend it didn't bother her. Drama was never a good sales tactic.

“Yeah, _Jaime_ , can’t you see we’re busy? This one was just giving me a few of her treats here.” He picked up another cookie and took a sloppy bite. Crumbs rained down to the carpet. “Whoops,” he mumbled around the bite.

Jaime glanced at Brienne, but before she could shake her head ‘no’, he had the man by the arm and was dragging him to the door. “You’ll enjoy that much better outside,” he said, pushing the stranger out the door and across the thick green lawn.

“He’s on the curb!” an elderly woman exclaimed by the front window. The rest of the homebuyers rushed over to watch. “Now the redhead is throwing punches! Oh! The pretty one took him out in one swing!”

The prospective homeowners cheered and clapped. Brienne groaned and covered her face with her hands. The clapping increased in enthusiasm, and when Brienne looked back up, Jaime was striding back through the door. He fixed her with a fiery stare, and she blushed, furious.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed when he came around the counter. 

He stopped and turned to wave at the homebuyers in the other room. When he turned back to her, he was smiling. “Rescuing you from an asshole,” he drawled. “Clearly.”

Brienne growled and grabbed the sleeve of his right arm. She didn't need rescuing—she needed a smooth, easy open house. She hauled him down a hallway, past the laundry room and the garage, and shoved him into the guest bath. She pulled the door shut behind them. “I mean,” she snapped, “what do you think you’re doing here? Tonight?”

He leaned back against a wall and crossed his arms. The guest bathroom was spacious—another selling point for the house—with a double vanity, storm grey walls, and a full bath. Brienne leaned back against the vanity across from him.

“I told you,” Jaime replied, “Tobho Mott is looking for a new home for his growing family.”

Brienne scowled at him. “If you think I believe that well-rehearsed line, you must take me for an even bigger simpleton than I thought.” She crossed her arms to mimic him; two could play the power game. “What are you really doing here, Jaime? Trying to make me lose a sale? You’ve done an awfully good job, if that’s the case.”

Jaime waved his hand dismissively at the door. “What? That out there? If you don’t get a sale based off that asshole and my—you must admit—stunning act of bravado, then I’ll relinquish my broker’s license tonight.”

Brienne stared at him. “You want half my commission, don’t you?”

Jaime scoffed. “I’m a Lannister, legs. We have more money than we know what to do with. I certainly don’t need your paltry six percent commission on this place.” He reached past her to rap his knuckles against the brushed steel faucet behind her hip and scrunched his nose. “What’s it listed at? Two thirty-five, at best?”

Brienne sucked in a breath at his close proximity and tried, unsuccessfully, not to let his scent overwhelm her. Of course he didn’t need the commission; he even smelled expensive. “What do you really want, Jaime?”

He pulled back and leaned against the wall once more. He regarded her with an unexpectedly open expression verging on vulnerable. Brienne bit her bottom lip uneasily, and his eyes followed the movement of her teeth. “Why do you think?”

*

In another life, Brienne might have been an accountant or a zookeeper or an IT worker. Any number of professions that did not require she come into constant contact with fanatical, egocentric salespeople on a day-to-day basis. As it was, she worked in real estate, so her days were made up of leading bumbling, well-meaning families around houses they could barely afford and then negotiating for hours via fax and telephone with their agents. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she represented both the buyer and the seller. But more often than not, she was up all night faxing men like Jaime.

Pretty men, who wore well-tailored suits and drove flashy luxury vehicles. Pretty women, too, who dressed in sharp angles and spent an hour each morning curling their hair into perfectly-tousled waves. Agents who carried thick leather Filofaxes and heavy, shiny pens. After all, this business was all about first impressions.

Brienne did her best to keep up. She had a Filofax and a weighted pen, too. She drove a four-door silver sedan that her father had once proudly declared as being “commodious.” She tried to tame her straw-like, close-cropped blond hair, and lined her lashes with kohl because it set off her eyes. She wasn’t ignorant in the tricks of the trade, she just didn't relish them. 

Jaime Lannister? He was a mirage. Brienne knew this because after screaming at someone over the phone for weeks and years, you get to know one another fairly well. She’d discussed market trends with him over coffee at networking events. They’d made faces at each other during the annual Real Estate Agent of the Year award show. They’d even played footsie once under the conference table at Casterly Rock Residential as Jaime’s hawk-faced father glared at them across the mahogany expanse.

Jaime was smart and quick to find mistakes where others had simply glossed over the details. But he had imperfections just like anyone else, and Brienne could appreciate those better than any fancy pen. While she had too many freckles and a too-wide mouth, Jaime had grey hairs at his temples and in his beard. Her shoulders were broad like a man’s; he chewed his nails. Brienne chose to see the best in people; Jaime took years to wear down. She relied on dogged determination to get herself through the day; he used his steely-eyed, cynical charm. 

And that’s where things got complicated.

*

Jaime waited for an answer. Brienne took her time formulating her response. This conversation would have been so much easier over fax or email. When she still hadn’t replied, Jaime rolled his eyes. “I kissed you,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Brienne dropped her hands to the vanity counter top. “I remember.” He looked as if he expected something more, so she said, “It was… nice.”

“Nice? It was nice? That’s all you have to say.”

She glared at him. “How about unprofessional?” she asked, remembering the pinch of the conference table’s edge against her ass and the way the light cut through the drawn blinds on the windows. “As is this conversation,” she added. “Where is Mr. Mott, anyway? What would he think about you manhandling a potential homebuyer?”

Jaime shrugged, choosing to ignore her clumsy deflection. “I left him upstairs, lecturing a couple with a baby on the merits of low-flow toilets. He’s an evangelist for water conservation. He says they’re much better for the environment. I have to say, I agree with him.”

Brienne ground her teeth and dug her hands against the edge of the counter. It only served to remind her of their kiss yesterday in the office. One moment they were arguing over Jaime’s attempt to poach her commission fee (a bad joke, he'd claimed), and the next he was kissing her, his tongue in her mouth and her hands fisted in his shirt. They’d been interrupted by Catelyn knocking on the conference room door, concerned, apparently, by the uncharacteristic silence coming from the room.

“Why didn’t you call me back last night, Brienne?” Jaime asked. 

“I’m not contractually obligated to call you back, you know,” she said, though it _had_ been the first time she’d failed to return one of his after-hours calls. She hadn’t expected Jaime to kiss her, but once he had, she didn’t want him to stop. When he finally pried his mouth away from hers and called an excuse to Catelyn on the other side of the door, Brienne was flushed with embarrassment and self-doubt. It wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed. “Maybe I was busy.”

His gaze was piercing. “Were you?”

“What do you care?”

Jaime twisted his mouth in a half-smile, half-grimace. “Trust me, legs. I care.”

“Stop calling me ‘legs,’” she snapped. “It’s so… so misogynistic!”

He shook his head. “It isn’t. It’s a term of endearment.”

“It’s insulting.”

“Hardly. It’s an astute observation. A fact, even. Your legs go on for miles.” He paused and leaned back to regard them. His eyes lingered on her ankles and the tops of her thighs. Goosebumps prickled along her arms. “I bet if you sat on the vanity, your feet could even reach the wall behind me.”

She shifted, her abdominal muscles tightening involuntarily. “They wouldn’t. This is a very spacious guest bath. It’s one of the best features of the house.”

Jaime lowered his voice to one she recognized from their contract negotiations, when he was determined to get what he wanted. “Care to find out?” 

She hesitated. This was unprofessional. There were potential homebuyers just outside the door, waiting to ask her about square footage and the type of insulation in the walls. The whole evening had been one misstep after another, and she still had a duty to Catelyn and the seller. She should tell Jaime to leave. She should get back out there. She didn’t move.

The way Jaime was looking at her now was an offer for something far more interesting than discussing dishwashers and double-paned windows. It was an offer for more than just stolen kisses in a conference room. She hadn’t called Jaime back last night because she hadn’t been ready to consider it, consider him. She wasn’t used to men throwing themselves on her like that, especially not men that looked like Jaime. It scared her; terrified her, even. But Brienne was nothing if not determined.

She kicked off her shoes and gripped the vanity. Her legs were lean and muscular from nights spent in the gym. She lifted them one by one with Jaime trapped between them. He was right—her bare feet met the wall easily, her knees bending to accommodate the length of her legs. Jaime looked momentarily stunned, as if he hadn’t thought she’d do it. He glanced at her thighs, and she saw him gulp.

“There,” he said, his voice slightly strangled. He tried for a smirk and failed. “Just as I said.” He took a tiny step towards her and placed a hand on her knee. She shivered at the feel of his fingertips resting lightly against her skin. Slowly, agonizingly, he dragged his hand along her outer thigh. Brienne held her breath and together they watched his hand stop at the hem of her sheath dress. “A fact,” he whispered. 

She licked her lips, the homebuyers forgotten. Jaime stared at her, his eyes dark. She wondered what his tongue would feel like in her mouth; if he’d tried the cookies, if he’d taste like sugar. He pushed her dress further up her leg, testing her.

“We can’t,” she breathed, a jolt like lightning shooting through her chest.

He paused. “Are you telling me to stop, legs?”

She shook her head, and he pushed her dress up until it bunched around her hips. His hand moved across her thigh and met the seam of her underwear. He paused again. His breath shook. Her leg muscles clenched. She reached out and grasped the tip of his red silk tie. He looked up with a silent question. Brienne tilted her hips forward slightly, just enough, and he took it as permission to slide his fingers beneath the thin fabric and stroke the slickness he found underneath.

Her breath hitched. She grabbed his tie and pulled him to her until his mouth met hers. Jaime’s tongue swiped across her lips and she opened her mouth for him. He moved in close between her legs, his tongue sliding against hers in time to the movement of his hand. His other hand gripped her ass to steady them on the counter. She pressed her feet against the wall behind him for leverage, and they both moaned as he sunk two fingers into her.

She broke away. “Jaime,” she whispered. They couldn’t do this here.

He groaned. “What is it, legs? Don’t tell me to stop now.”

His breath swirled in her ear as he bit down on her earlobe. He licked along the thick column of her neck and curled his fingertips as he thrust. Her head fell back against the vanity mirror and the edges of her vision started to blur white. This was so unprofessional. Her hands searched blindly for the belt buckle at his waist.

“Jaime,” she panted, “at least lock the door.”

*

The house was nearly empty by the time they reemerged from the guest bathroom. Brienne yanked the hem of her dress down and tried to brush her hair into some semblance of polish before checking the upstairs for any lingering homebuyers. When she’d said goodbye to the last guest, with a promise to call him if anything else came on the market, she locked the front door and returned to the kitchen where Jaime was waiting for her.

He took her hand and drew it to his mouth, his lips lingering against her knuckles. She blushed. “I’m sorry, legs,” he said, his voice rough. “Looks like we missed the rest of the party.”

She tried not to feel a stab of disappointment at the departure of prospective homebuyers, the (albeit reduced) stacks of business cards and flyers sitting forlornly next to her empty cookie platter. She had a habit of second-guessing her own successes, and she hated it.

“It’s not the last open house I’ll host,” she replied finally, knowing it was true.

Jaime smiled at her and tugged her to him. “But it was the best.”

She smiled against his lips as he kissed her. Despite the near-brawl that occurred in the living room, and despite the lack of firm offers or leads on the house, it _had_ been a good night. She couldn’t deny that. (Although she _would_ have to give the guest bath a once over with the cleaning wipes she kept in the trunk of her car, as any good agent did.) She wrapped her arms around Jaime’s waist. Perhaps it might even be considered one of the best nights of her career, so far…

Suddenly, a buzzing vibration erupted from his suit pocket. She drew back. Jaime patted his jacket until he found his phone. He looked at her apologetically and then held it to his ear—a sacrifice for their trade.

“Mr. Mott!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry I missed you.” He paused. “Oh, you heard about that, did you? Yes, well, as you can imagine, the agent was very shaken up. I took her outside to get some air.”

Brienne glared at him and Jaime smiled sheepishly in return. She busied herself with cleaning up the cookie platter, brushing crumbs into the sink, and then piling the flyers and business cards on top of it.

Jaime nodded into his phone. “That’s excellent news, Tobho. I’ll draw up the papers first thing in the morning.” He paused again. Brienne looked over. “Tonight? Well, I don’t think a few hours will do much harm. The property has been on the market for some time now, and—Yes of course. No, not to worry, Mr. Mott, I assure you that I have a very good rapport with Ms. Tarth.” He winked at her, and Brienne rolled her eyes, ignoring the flutter in stomach.

Jaime laughed. “Yes, well, perhaps not at first, but it’s quite a different matter when we’re behind closed doors.” Brienne tossed a business card at him and Jaime ducked. “Very good, Mr. Mott. Goodnight to you too, sir.”

Jaime hung up the phone and stuffed it in his suit pocket. “Looks like you’ve got an offer coming your way, legs.”

Brienne looked him over, daring herself to say the words. “Just one?”

Jaime smiled and winked again. He came around the counter towards her. “We should draw up the paperwork tonight,” she said as he reached for her hands and twined his fingers in hers. “I can fax it over to the seller right away.”

Jaime leaned in and kissed her lightly. He brushed his lips across her cheek and nuzzled the side of her neck. “Didn’t you hear what I said to Mr. Mott, legs? A few hours won’t hurt.” There was a challenge in his voice, and Brienne’s heart sped up.

“Besides,” he purred, “I think I’d like to revisit the topic of my commission rate.” He stepped back and nodded in the direction of the stairs, his expression hungry. “Why don’t you show me the en suite while we discuss it?”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “Not a chance.” But she allowed him to pull her up the stairs anyway, kicking off her shoes off as they went. 

 


End file.
